


Sweet Silver Bells

by daddylover69



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Party, Hurt No Comfort, Original Character(s), Other, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Trans Character, everything goes to shit, not really but, one of those " washington adopts hamilton as their foster child " stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 15:17:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8758045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daddylover69/pseuds/daddylover69
Summary: Now that Hamilton stands in front of the library- it’s not that bad.“ It’s not that bad, “ Martha repeats, like she could read his mind, as they trot beyond the glass doors.





	

**Author's Note:**

> okay!! second fic, let's do this.
> 
> notes: this is an au where george and martha washington have adopted alexander hamilton as their foster son, and george washington is the teacher of a debate's class that hamilton and others attend. alexander is around 15 during the story, but younger in flashbacks. hamiton's also FTM- and his birth name was rachel, thus why he's called that during a flashback.
> 
> ty for reading!!!
> 
> WARNINGS for past sexual assault!! if i should tag this as rape/non, or as such- please tell me!

It’s a good idea to trudge along, in retrospect.

The school held it at eight, a large majority of time after the last bell. It’s full of half-assed pastries and last minute decorations that clustered around each-other. The evident usage of sanguine construction paper and rushed renderings of what Christmas meant to the students depicted from the run-down art program is a sight to behold. It’s held in the local library, the owners renting it without much hesitation, not burdening themselves with the destruction that could erupt if you let the entire, mediocre town in secluded Virginia’s residents into its interior. Glossed up and dusted for the party’s sake, the library shines and boisterously emits the typical holiday cheer. It borders on snowing outside, but the natural heat that Virginia bares is enough for only a clean sheet of frost and chunks of white to scatter on the exterior- despite the lack of the piling snow, the air is stale and frigid. Hamilton actually enjoys the chill, but not the suffocation of Christmas forced down his throat. It’s begrudgingly bitter, the natural loathing towards the perk of atmosphere, it curdles in the pit of his stomach.

The first year at the Washingtons, they celebrated it tamely. A simple Christmas tree and neatly wrapped presents sheltered under the gnarled pine needles. Martha had set the brilliant decoy up while Alexander was at school, let the surprise lavish over the scenery at the prideful Christmas tree uprooted in the middle of the living room, and the ornaments that vividly garnished its concealed branches and leaves. Hamilton stared, wide-eyed at the scene before head craning over to Martha’s giddy quirk of her lips, and George’s body shifting anxiously next to hers. He recollects George’s eyes flicking away from Alexander nervously for a split second before gaining a better composure, says that they usually didn’t commemorate the occasion, but they decided to for that year for his sake. Alexander was agape at them, swallowing thickly before snapping his eyesight away, already feeling the sweltering heat of embarrassment flood his face.

That was two years ago, actually.

Hamilton allowed the Washingtons celebrate it with him, for his and their sake. It was mostly foreign actually, his past Foster Homes had it, sure, but not to this levels of luxury. Presents with the intent of actually gaining a mirthful intake of breath from him, not something slapped together a few days before the day and practically forcing a reaction along with it. Hamilton didn’t need to feign anything with the Washingtons, sloppily tearing the box apart and tugging out a polished journal always got a lurch from him. It was a good day- last year Lafayette, John, and Hercules even joined him. Hamilton can recollect Lafayette’s rapid French out of pure abolishing surprise when John had pressed chapped lips against the French man’s cheek, excused his actions by beckoning to a sloppily tied mistletoe that hung frank from under a door-frame. Hamilton remembers Hercules burning himself on a log: the sputtering swears as he pressed a wet rag to the smoking epidermis, George having to set the rest of the wood into the lit fire-place, and the sharp, harsh scolding from Martha due to Hercules’s vulgar vocabulary. These are the Christmases he loves, storing them away into his mental closets without a slight shift of hesitation- he’ll let the atmosphere simmer and boil in the contents of his brain for years to come.

 

  
The first time it’s mentioned- it’s actually in the school’s morning announcement

The dull, monotone voice of some secretary whose pay rivals the teachers own brings it up after the natural anthem. From the intercom, she gives a scripted talk of the upcoming Christmas party held at the local library. Hamilton had heard about it prior, let it reel in his brain for a moment before he dismissed it with no reluctance lacing such actions. He could see other kids beginning to stir, Angelica already pulling her phone out in a way George may not be able to see it and beginning to privately text to somebody about the whole ordeal- Hamilton assumes it's to her sisters, he can spot Jefferson shifting in his seat, swiveling around successfully to murmur to Madison, and Laurens already directing his sights over to Lafayette and flashing a crooked, dimpled grin. Endearing in a sense- and Alexander would probably give a teasing coo, but he’s still on a slow start due to the snagged Mcdonald's coffee from Mr. Washington’s bag still not taking effect yet. Alexander just shakes his head, the traces of a smile tugging affectionately at his lips just by seeing the pair as he directs his sights to Mr. Washington already setting down today’s Bell-Work Sheet.

 

  
The second time it’s mentioned- he’s at home.

Mr. Washington suggests it, of course he does. He suggests it while Hamilton is getting dressed for school. The scarf that’s snug against the skin of his neck, and the straining coat he wiggles into. He had suddenly felt sizeable hands maneuver his arms around, allow himself to squirm more suitably into the winter attire. Optics snapping upwards to George who shifts above him, practically looming over his smaller frame. Hamilton raises an eyebrow in questioning, but dismisses the assistance as a coincidental mistake, and he lets Washington tie his own shoes, ask him how his night was. It was something they discussed over breakfast, but Hamilton made no effort to question the motives as Washington manages to knot the shoes finally, and George stirs up and clears his throat, waits until Alexander’s head cranes up before continuing to express the mental thoughts brimming in his head audibly.

“ You do remember yesterday’s announcement, the one relating to the Christmas Party in a week? “

“ Yes, sir- I remember it. What about it? “

George shifts on his heels, runs a hand down the back of his neck as if asking was a task. Maybe it was Martha’s idea to inquire him, but George might’ve been burdened with the vocalization part. Hamilton’s hands fidget in the gloves he bares, wants to snap back just because the man’s nervous.

“ Me and Martha go every year. We were wondering if you’d come with us this time. “

He wants to say no, actually. Christmas wasn’t a thing he did often and the only reason for doing it now was because they seemed to enjoy it- let them indulge in the spirit and have him along for the ravishing ride. But his jaws are already going ajar and a simple, “ yes sir, “ is drooling from his maw. His gut twists at George’s pleased smile, but he pushes it down. Alexander’s not uncomfortable- far from the feeling, but the nauseating experience of having to now go bitterly floods his mind. But he doesn’t dwell on the sensation for long, because he hears Martha’s voice reverberate that it’s time to head to school.

 

  
Now that Hamilton stands in front of the library- it’s not that bad.

“ It’s not that bad, “ Martha repeats, like she could read his mind, as they trot beyond the glass doors.

The first thing he notes is the music. Deck the Halls is suffocating the room- the tune coming from nearby speakers. It’s exasperating, sets the mood of borderline stereotypical Christmas parties. Flooded with colors of green, red, and white, Hamilton blinks twice before adjusting to the sight. He doesn’t take notice to the decor that heavily, and if he tried, it’d be lost to the tune of music that rings so heavily in his ears- it instead settles into the illustration of mind and it’s before he’s already spotting the cluster of familiarity secluded next to a remote bookshelf. Though John may be a harder character to spot due to the heavily-fabricated Santa hat lying bare on top of his curls, Lafayette is an evident ray of light with darker brunette ponytail bouncing with every word uttered through his canines. Hamilton allows his gaze to wander to the Washingtons before scurrying over to the group, already forgetting about the initial season’s time.

The party was mediocre at best- Hamilton just enjoying the quiet energy flickering across his conversations with Lafayette, John, and Hercules. The spike of adrenaline that strains against his veins as Lafayette recounts Christmases at France, or Laurens joking about his father’s secret fetish with Santa Claus’s coat. It’s refreshing, lets the evocative setting dull into a low scintillating atmosphere as the conversation drags, traverses along. The taste of pasties against his tongue, the dough that wasn’t baked firmly enough settling stickily on his tongue and Dollar Store sprinkles that tickle the roof of his mouth- it’s not what he was firmly set on believing.

James and Thomas arrived soon later, and if Hamilton didn’t die from laughing from the poorly-stitched sweater Jefferson bore heavily on his lean body, than Alexander’s sure he’ll die from the baked goods that are weighing in the pit of his stomach like sharpened anchors.

“ Dear frère, might I must say that I love your sweater! “

Lafayette’s greeting is a mere chirp, reminiscent of a bird at dawn, but a smug quirk tugs giddily at the edges of his lips.

“ Grandma made it for me. It’s supposed to look ugly ya’ll- stop, if you so much as snort once more Alexander I’ll sock you so hard- “

 

  
There was a mistletoe at the party that Hamilton was caught under twice, actually.

The first was Hercules- he should’ve suspected in retrospect. There wasn’t a lick of hesitation as Hercules pulled Hamilton up until his toes barely could graze the wooden flooring of the library, and pressed the chapped lips eagerly to his own pair. A bit numbing, mind-boggling as Hamilton offered a reaction as their foreheads bumped together as the ministrations continued for a few seconds before Alexander’s lungs were withering enough to draw backwards. His head was reeling, stumbling backwards as Herc’s clutch was immediately letting go of his frame. It took moments before Hamilton allowed a goofy curl of his lips in reply to the other, who gave him a hearty thumbs-up. It was between friends, possibly nothing more.

The second time it was from Maria. Luscious, red-cherry lipstick that flourish so brightly Alexander knows she had stole it from her mother. The kiss was chaste, laving over the skin of his cheek before drawing backwards with faint pink dusting over her cheeks as she offers an apology for rushing into the action so quickly. Hamilton had only blinked numbly, let a pudgy hand linger on the skin of his cheek before sputtering out a reply, face hot as they quickly separated into the crowds.

The music made both times more awkward than need be, but Hamilton was beginning to block the joyous melodies out.

He’s talking with Mr. Washington when the music fades from Rockin’ around the Christmas Tree to Carol of the Bells. The conversation doesn’t give a stutter by this, but Hamilton’s sentence trails off because his mind has gone blank for the time being, so he allows George to continue the droning response with lighthearted energy. Hamilton doesn’t listen to Mr. Washington, though. The fresh tune, simple as it may be, lies in his gut with bafflement.

 

_He’s heard this before._

_Of course you have, it’s a popular Christmas song_ his mind provides.

_He’s heard this before._

_Did they play this in the Nevis?_

_He’s_ heard _this before._

_You don’t celebrate Christmas with them anymore._

 

“ Hamilton? “ George’s voice tries to cut in- and it manages for a split second before the violent tide of lurching thought overlaps it.

 

_Hark, how the bells, sweet silver bells_

The song’s too fast. He never could remember the lyrics. They could, though. It ran from their lips too quickly, their language is English but it doesn’t sound like it- maybe he could translate it properly if he listened intently enough, or they slowed down for just a second. Maybe they would allow him to skim the lyrics if he asked them. How did they all know the song? It was an American thing, probably.

The Christmas tree is a real surprise though, actually. He and his mother, and most of the neighborhood back in the Caribbean actually didn’t celebrate it, thus the concept was mostly foreign. The foster parents explained the idea without a lick of penalty nor judge-mentality. Sympathy had even grazed their features, and they offered such ideas that Hamilton soaked it in like a ratty kitchen sponge. He could get behind Christmas- wasn’t he in America now? If it’s an American thing he could now celebrate it without abandon or the lack of financial funds.

 

_All seem to say, throw cares away_

 

The present was a run-down figurine. A low quality Barbie they probably snagged from the Thrift Store down the road- It was fine, though, he didn’t ask for anything so they got what they could. The Barbie came with a miniature brush and a few sets of attires. Alexander had stared at it for a while, let the plastic smooth over his digits, comb through the fake blonde hair with blunt nails. The painted smile only remained with his eye contact until he glanced over to its accessories and began sorting through them with eye-lids warily lowered into a squint.

A sudden hand on his shoulder alerted him, caused him to jerk upwards and head snap up to the foster dad, Mr. Tillman, his mind offers.

“ Rachel, I’m sorry that we couldn’t get you anything better. “

The name didn’t settle with him nicely- and he wants to protest.

“ It’s fine, sir, “ is all that comes out instead.

 

_Christmas is here, bringing good cheer_

 

“ Alexander? “

There’s hands pressed on his shoulders, bigger than Mr. Tillman’s own pair. They’re moving up to gently cup his jaw, tilt his head up to get a glimpse, a flash of heftily-dosed concern in dark optics, eye-brows knit together, and tightly pursed lips.

“ Alexander, son, you’re not breath _ing_ \- “

It’s really hot. It’s winter isn’t it? Maybe he should ask the librarian to turn the temperature down- it doesn’t need to be this sweltering in here. His mouth tips open to ask Mr. Washington for heeding permission to perform the action, but it’s not coming out despite his best efforts. His tongue’s too big for his mouth, it can’t speak. It’s so hot- he’s burning up, so balmy and boiling that he can’t manage to suck oxygen in. George has to notice it’s so searing, so suffocating, so constricting-

 

_Too young and old, meek and the bold_

 

There’s a hand placed on his knee. Mr. Tillman should leave him alone with the Barbie.

 

_That is their song, with joyful ring, all caroling_

 

How do they sing it? It’s so fast, even for his tastes. Mrs. Tillman could teach him, or possibly his new brother or sisters. They don’t speak to him much, but he could gain the momentum to ask them such a question by badgering for the attention firsthand.

“ How do they sing it? “ He repeats.

Mr. Tillman laughs at the question.

 

_One seems to hear, words of good cheer, from everywhere, filling the air_

His lungs hurt so much, and George’s hands won’t leave his body. He still needs to ask about the temperature. Mr. Washington’s talking, he can hear the rough, coarse voice ring out- but it’s as if he’s waterlogged, the noises all gurgled and muddled under the murky surface. But that doesn’t matter- instead there’s sweat starting to curdle on his skin, he can feel it drool down the flesh- maybe he’s overheating too, and it’s not just the library. Maybe all the ideas he has fuming in his mind, all of his mental gears rusting up and too bared to take on the responsibility of asking Mr. Washington if he could ask the librarian to hurt the heat down is making his mind go beserk.

_O, how they pound, raising the sound, oer hill and dale, telling their tale_

The hand on his knee is pressing relentlessly against his thigh now, and Mr. Tillman is so close that he can smell the stale smoke and run-down gas station food plaguing his tongue, the hot puffs of breath that tickle the rim of his ear. The song’s still playing in the background- a light tremor of orchestria of charading music as Mr. Tillman’s hand is ghosting more upwards and he doesn’t want to learn the lyrics anymore- let it stay an American thing- let it stay-

_Gaily they ring, while people sing, songs of good cheer, Christmas is here_

Is the Christmas party still going on? Hamilton can’t decide whether or not it is- the scenery is too blurred in for him to tell, and he can’t seem to focus enough to readjust his sight. He suddenly feels cool, calloused contact on his cheek, then onto his wrist and a tension, than held back upwards. The breath on his face doesn’t stench of anything horrid- he can smell expensive cologne, however- maybe that’s better. There’s more voices, maybe somebody’s speaking French if he listened intently enough. He tries to shift his frame, sit up possibly, but his body is tied to the ground. It’s as if gravity reels him into the wood below, or his bone marrow is clogged up with metal- he tastes the same of steel on his tongue, actually. He can’t hear them- the ringing that reverberates so boisterously in the interior of his mind is so loud- it’s as if the silver bells themselves have secluded their noises inside of his cranium.  
  
“ Please, son, _don’t_ \- “

The silver bells are so loud.


End file.
